Part 4
"Though seven Springs have filled the Wood With pleasant hints and signs, Since faltering feet went forth and stood With Death amongst the pines."
From point to point unwittingly We wish to clamber still, Till we have light enough to see The summits of the hill.
"O do not cry, my sister dear," Said beaming Hope to Love, "Though we have been so troubled here The Land is calm above;
"Beyond the regions of the storm We'll find the golden gates, Where, all the day, a radiant Form, Our Ella, sits and waits."
And Memory murmured: "She was one Of God's own darlings lent; And Angels wept that she had gone, And wondered why she went.
"I know they came, and talked to her, Through every garden breeze, About eternal Hills of Myrrh, And quiet Jasper Seas.
"For her the Earth contained no charms; All things were strange and wild; And I believe a Seraph's arms Caught up the sainted Child."
And Love looked round, and said: "Oh, you That sit by Beulah's streams, Shake on this thirsty life the dew Which brings immortal dreams!
"Ah! turn to us, and greet us oft With looks of pitying balm, And hints of heaven, in whispers soft, To make our troubles calm.
"My Ella with the shining hair, Behold, these many years, We've held up wearied hands in prayer; And groped about in tears."
But Hope sings on: "Beyond the storm We'll find the golden gates Where, all the day, a radiant Form, Our Ella, sits and waits."
The Barcoo
(The Squatters' Song)
From the runs of the Narran, wide-dotted with sheep, And loud with the lowing of cattle, We speed for a land where the strange forests sleep And the hidden creeks bubble and brattle! Now call on the horses, and leave the blind courses And sources of rivers that all of us know; For, crossing the ridges, and passing the ledges, And running up gorges, we'll come to the verges Of gullies where waters eternally flow. Oh! the herds they will rush down the spurs of the hill To feed on the grasses so cool and so sweet; And I think that my life with delight will stand still When we halt with the pleasant Barcoo at our feet.
Good-bye to the Barwon, and brigalow scrubs, Adieu to the Culgoa ranges, But look for the mulga and salt-bitten shrubs, Though the face of the forest-land changes. The leagues we may travel down beds of hot gravel, And clay-crusted reaches where moisture hath been, While searching for waters, may vex us and thwart us, Yet who would be quailing, or fainting, or failing? Not you, who are men of the Narran, I ween! When we leave the dry channels away to the south, And reach the far plains we are journeying to, We will cry, though our lips may be glued with the drouth, Hip, hip, and hurrah for the pleasant Barcoo!
Bells Beyond the Forest
Wild-eyed woodlands, here I rest me, underneath the gaunt and ghastly trees; Underneath fantastic-fronted caverns crammed with many a muffled breeze. Far away from dusky towns and cities twinkling with the feet of men; Listening to a sound of mellow music fleeting down the gusty glen; Sitting by a rapid torrent, with the broken sunset in my face; By a rapid, roaring torrent, tumbling through a dark and lonely place! And I hear the bells beyond the forest, and the voice of distant streams; And a flood of swelling singing, wafting round a world of ruined dreams.
Like to one who watches daylight dying from a lofty mountain spire, When the autumn splendour scatters like a gust of faintly-gleaming fire; So the silent spirit looketh through a mist of faded smiles and tears, While across it stealeth all the sad and sweet divinity of years-- All the scenes of shine and shadow; light and darkness sleeping side by side When my heart was wedded to existence, as a bridegroom to his bride: While I travelled gaily onward with the vapours crowding in my wake, Deeming that the Present hid the glory where the promised Morn would break.
Like to one who, by the waters standing, marks the reeling ocean wave Moaning, hide his head all torn and shivered underneath his lonely cave, So the soul within me glances at the tides of Purpose where they creep, Dashed to fragments by the yawning ridges circling Life's tempestuous Deep! Oh! the tattered leaves are dropping, dropping round me like a fall of rain; While the dust of many a broken aspiration sweeps my troubled brain; With the yearnings after Beauty, and the longings to be good and great; And the thoughts of catching Fortune, flying on the tardy wings of Fate.
Bells, beyond the forest chiming, where is all the inspiration now That was wont to flush my forehead, and to chase the pallor from my brow? Did I not, amongst these thickets, weave my thoughts and passions into rhyme, Trusting that the words were golden, hoping for the praise of after-time? Where have all those fancies fled to? Can the fond delusion linger still, When the Evening withers o'er me, and the night is creeping up the hill? If the years of strength have left me, and my life begins to fail and fade, Who will learn my simple ballads; who will stay to sing the songs I've made?
Bells, beyond the forest ringing, lo, I hasten to the world again; For the sun has smote the empty windows, and the day is on the wane! Hear I not a dreamy echo, soughing through the rafters of the tree; Like a sound of stormy rivers, or the ravings of a restless sea? Should I loiter here to listen, while this fitful wind is on the wing? No, the heart of Time is sobbing, and my spirit is a withered thing! Let the rapid torrents tumble, let the woodlands whistle in the blast; Mighty minstrels sing behind me, but the promise of my youth is past.
Ulmarra
Alone--alone! With a heart like a stone, She maketh her moan At the feet of the trees, With her face on her knees, And her hair streaming over; Wildly, and wildly, and wildly; For she misses the tracks of her lover! Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh, where are the tracks of her lover?
Go by--go by! They have told her a lie, Who said he was nigh, In the white-cedar glen-- In the camps of his men: And she sitteth there weeping-- Weeping, and weeping, and weeping, For the face of a warrior sleeping! Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh! where is her warrior sleeping?
A dream! a dream! That they saw a bright gleam Through the dusk boughs stream, Where wild bees dwell, And a tomahawk fell, In moons which have faded; Faded, and faded, and faded, From woods where a chieftain lies shaded! Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh! where doth her chieftain lie shaded?
Bewail! bewail! Who whispered a tale, That they heard on the gale, Through the dark and the cold, The voice of the bold; And a boomerang flying; Flying, and flying, and flying? Ah! her heart it is wasted with crying-- Do you hear her, Ulmarra? Oh! her heart it is wasted with crying!
The Maid of Gerringong
Rolling through the gloomy gorges, comes the roaring southern blast, With a sound of torrents flying, like a routed army, past, And, beneath the shaggy forelands, strange fantastic forms of surf Fly, like wild hounds, at the darkness, crouching over sea and earth; Swooping round the sunken caverns, with an aggravated roar; Falling where the waters tumble foaming on a screaming shore! In a night like this we parted. Eyes were wet though speech was low, And our thoughts were all in mourning for the dear, dead Long Ago! In a night like this we parted. Hearts were sad though they were young, And you left me very lonely, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.
Said my darling, looking at me, through the radiance of her tears: "Many changes, O my loved One, we will meet in after years; Changes like to sudden sunbursts flashing down a rainy steep-- Changes like to swift-winged shadows falling on a moony deep! And they are so cheerless sometimes, leaving, when they pass us by, Deepening dolours on the sweet, sad face of our Humanity. But you'll hope, and fail and faint not, with that heart so warm and true, Watching for the coming Morning, that will flood the World for you; Listening through a thirsty silence, till the low winds bear along Eager footfalls--pleasant voices," said the Maid of Gerringong.
Said my darling, when the wind came sobbing wildly round the eaves: "Oh, the Purpose scattered from me, like the withered autumn leaves! Oh, the wreck of Love's ambition! Oh, the fond and full belief That I yet should hear them hail you in your land a God-made chief! In the loud day they may slumber, but my thoughts will not be still When the weary world is sleeping, and the moon is on the hill; Then your form will bend above me, then your voice will rise and fall, Though I turn and hide in darkness, with my face against the wall, And my Soul must rise and listen while those homeless memories throng Moaning in the night for shelter," said the Maid of Gerringong.
Ay, she passed away and left me! Rising through the dusk of tears, Came a vision of that parting every day for many years! Every day, though she had told me not to court the strange sweet pain, Something whispered--something led me to our olden haunts again: And I used to wander nightly, by the surges and the ships, Harping on those last fond accents that had trembled from her lips: Till a vessel crossed the waters, and I heard a stranger say, "One you loved has died in silence with her dear face turned away." Oh! the eyes that flash upon me, and the voice that comes along-- Oh! my light, my life, my darling dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.
. . . . .
Some one saith, "Oh, you that mock at Passion with a worldly whine, Would you change the face of Nature--would you limit God's design? Hide for shame from well-raised clamour, moderate fools who would be wise; Hide for shame--the World will hoot you! Love is Love, and never dies" And another asketh, doubting that my brother speaks the truth, "Can we love in age as fondly as we did in days of youth? Will dead faces always haunt us, in the time of faltering breath? Shall we yearn, and we so feeble?" Ay, for Love is Love in Death. Oh! the Faith with sure foundation!--let the Ages roll along, You are mine, and mine for ever, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.
Last night, dear, I dreamt about you, and I thought that far from men We were walking, both together, in a fragrant seaside glen; Down where we could hear the surges wailing round the castled cliffs, Down where we could see the sunset reddening on the distant skiffs; There a fall of mountain waters tumbled through the knotted bowers Bright with rainbow colours reeling on the purple forest flowers. And we rested on the benches of a cavern old and hoar; And I whispered, "this is surely her I loved in days of yore! False he was who brought sad tidings! Why were you away so long, When you knew who waited for you, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong?
"Did the strangers come around you, in the far-off foreign land? Did they lead you out of sorrow, with kind face and loving hand? Had they pleasant ways to court you--had they silver words to bind? Had they souls more fond and loyal than the soul you left behind? Do not think I blame you, dear one! Ah! my heart is gushing o'er With the sudden joy and wonder, thus to see your face once more. Happy is the chance which joins us after long, long years of pain: And, oh, blessed was whatever sent you back to me again! Now our pleasure will be real--now our hopes again are young: Now we'll climb Life's brightest summits, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong.
"In the sound of many footfalls, did you falter with regret For a step which used to gladden in the time so vivid yet? When they left you in the night-hours, did you lie awake like me, With the thoughts of what we had been--what we never more could be? Ah! you look but do not answer while I halt and question here, Wondering why I am so happy, doubting that you are so near. Sure these eyes with love are blinded, for your form is waxing faint; And a dreamy splendour crowns it, like the halo round a saint! When I talk of what we will be, and new aspirations throng, Why are you so sadly silent, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong?"
But she faded into sunset, and the sunset passed from sight; And I followed madly after, through the misty, moony night, Crying, "do not leave me lonely! Life has been so cold and drear, You are all that God has left me, and I want you to be near! Do not leave me in the darkness! I have walked a weary way, Listening for your truant footsteps--turn and stay, my darling, stay!" But she came not though I waited, watching through a splendid haze, Where the lovely Phantom halted ere she vanished from my gaze. Then I thought that rain was falling, for there rose a stormy song, And I woke in gloom and tempest, dark-haired Maid of Gerringong!
Watching
Like a beautiful face looking ever at me A pure bright moon cometh over the sea; And I stand on the crags, and hear the falls Go tumbling down, through the black river-walls; And the heart of the gorge is rent with the cry Of the pent-up winds in their agony! You are far from me, dear, where I watch and wait, Like a weary bird for a long-lost mate, And my life is as dull as the sluggish stream Feeling its way through a world of dream; For here is a waste of darkness and fear, And I call and I call, but no one will hear! O darling of mine, do you ever yearn For a something lost, which will never return?
O darling of mine, on the grave of dead Hours, Do you feel, like me, for a handful of flowers? Through the glens of the Past, do you wander along, Like a restless ghost that hath done a wrong? And, lying alone, do you look from the drouth Of a thirsty Life with a pleading mouth? When the rain's on the roof, and the gales are abroad, Do you wash with your tears the feet of your God? Oh! I know you do, and he sitteth alone, Your wounded Love, while you mourn and moan-- Oh! I know you do, and he never will leap From his silence with smiles, while you weep--and weep!
Your coolness shake down, ye gathered green leaves, For my spirit is faint with the love that it grieves! Is there aught on the summit, O yearner through Night, Aught on the summit which looks like the light; When my soul is a-wearied and lone in the land, Groping around will it touch a kind hand? There are chasms between us as black as a pall, But bring us together, O God over all! And let me cast from me these fetters of Fear, When I hear the glad singing of Faith so near; For I know by the cheeks, which are pallid and wet, And a listening life we shall mingle yet! Oh! then I will turn to those eloquent eyes, And clasp thee close, with a sweet surprise; And a guest will go in by the heart's holy door, And the chambers of Love shall be left no more.
The Opossum-Hunters
Hear ye not the waters beating where the rapid rivers, meeting With the winds above them fleeting, hurry to the distant seas, And a smothered sound of singing from old Ocean upwards springing, Sending hollow echoes ringing like a wailing on the breeze? For the tempest round us brewing, cometh with the clouds pursuing, And the bright Day, like a ruin, crumbles from the mournful trees.
When the thunder ceases pealing, and the stars up heaven are stealing, And the Moon above us wheeling throws her pleasant glances round, From our homes we boldly sally 'neath the trysting tree to rally, For a night-hunt up the valley, with our brothers and the hound! Through a wild-eyed Forest, staring at the light above it glaring, We will travel, little caring for the dangers where we bound.
Twisted boughs shall tremble o'er us, hollow woods shall moan before us, And the torrents like a chorus down the gorges dark shall sing; And the vines shall shake and shiver, and the startled grasses quiver, Like the reeds beside a river in the gusty days of Spring; While we forward haste delighted, through a region seldom lighted-- Souls impatient, hearts excited--like a wind upon the wing!
Oh! the solemn tones of Ocean, like the language of devotion, Or a voice of deep emotion, wander round the evening scene. Oh! the ragged shadows cluster where, my brothers, we must muster Ere the warm moon lends her lustre to the cedars darkly green; And the lights like flowers shall blossom, in high Heaven's kindly bosom, While we hunt the wild opossum, underneath its leafy screen;
Underneath the woven bowers, where the gloomy night-hawk cowers, Through a lapse of dreamy hours, in a stirless solitude! And the hound--that close beside us still will stay whate'er betide us-- Through a 'wildering waste shall guide us-- through a maze where few intrude, Till the game is chased to cover, till the stirring sport is over, Till we bound, each happy rover, homeward down the laughing wood.
Oh, the joy in wandering thither, when fond friends are all together And our souls are like the weather--cloudless, clear and fresh and free! Let the sailor sing the story of the ancient ocean's glory, Forests golden, mountains hoary--can he look and love like we? Sordid worldling, haunt thy city with that heart so hard and gritty! There are those who turn with pity when they turn to think of thee!
In the Depths of a Forest
In the depths of a Forest secluded and wild, The night voices whisper in passionate numbers; And I'm leaning again, as I did when a child, O'er the grave where my father so quietly slumbers.
The years have rolled by with a thundering sound But I knew, O ye woodlands, affection would know it, And the spot which I stand on is sanctified ground By the love that I bear to him sleeping below it.
Oh! well may the winds with a saddening moan Go fitfully over the branches so dreary; And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone, And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary.
To Charles Harpur
I would sit at your feet for long days, To hear the sweet Muse of the Wild Speak out through the sad and the passionate lays Of her first and her favourite Child.
I would sit at your feet, for my soul Delights in the solitudes free; And I stand where the creeks and the cataracts roll Whensoever I listen to thee!
I would sit at your feet, for I love By the gulches and torrents to roam; And I long in this city for woodland and grove, And the peace of a wild forest home.
I would sit at your feet, and we'd dwell On the scenes of a long-vanished time, While your thoughts into music would surge and would swell Like a breeze of our beautiful clime.
I would sit at your feet, for I know, Though the World in the Present be blind, That the amaranth blossoms of Promise will blow When the Ages have left you behind.
I would sit at your feet, for I feel I am one of a glorious band That ever will own you and hold you their Chief, And a Monarch of Song in the land!
The River and the Hill
And they shook their sweetness out in their sleep, On the brink of that beautiful stream, But it wandered along with a wearisome song Like a lover that walks in a dream: So the roses blew When the winds went through, In the moonlight so white and so still; But the river it beat All night at the feet Of a cold and flinty hill-- Of a hard and senseless hill!
I said, "We have often showered our loves Upon something as dry as the dust; And the faith that is crost, and the hearts that are lost-- Oh! how can we wittingly trust? Like the stream which flows, And wails as it goes, Through the moonlight so white and so still, To beat and to beat All night at the feet Of a cold and flinty hill-- Of a hard and senseless hill?
"River, I stay where the sweet roses blow, And drink of their pleasant perfumes! Oh, why do you moan, in this wide world alone, When so much affection here blooms? The winds wax faint, And the Moon like a Saint Glides over the woodlands so white and so still! But you beat and you beat All night at the feet Of that cold and flinty hill-- Of that hard and senseless hill!"
The Fate of the Explorers
(A Fragment)
Set your face toward the darkness--tell of deserts weird and wide, Where unshaken woods are huddled, and low, languid waters glide; Turn and tell of deserts lonely, lying pathless, deep and vast, Where in utter silence ever Time seems slowly breathing past-- Silence only broken when the sun is flecked with cloudy bars, Or when tropic squalls come hurtling underneath the sultry stars! Deserts thorny, hot and thirsty, where the feet of men are strange, And eternal Nature sleeps in solitudes which know no change.
Weakened with their lengthened labours, past long plains of stone and sand, Down those trackless wilds they wandered, travellers from a far-off land, Seeking now to join their brothers, struggling on with faltering feet, For a glorious work was finished, and a noble task complete. And they dreamt of welcome faces--dreamt that soon unto their ears Friendly greetings would be thronging, with a nation's well-earned cheers; Since their courage never failed them, but with high, unflinching soul Each was pressing forward, hoping, trusting all should reach the goal.
. . . . .
Though he rallied in the morning, long before the close of day He had sunk, the worn-out hero, fainting, dying by the way! But with Death he wrestled hardly; three times rising from the sod, Yet a little further onward o'er the weary waste he trod. Facing Fate with heart undaunted, still the chief would totter on Till the evening closed about him--till the strength to move was gone; Then he penned his latest writings, and, before his life was spent, Gave the records to his comrade--gave the watch he said was lent-- Gave them with his last commandments, charging him that night to stay And to let him lie unburied when the soul had passed away.